Page 21 of Race to Me

I shake my head, and he pushes me back against a tree, trapping me. “No.”I’m scared because I like you, and things I like normally turn on me.

His hand comes to my hip as he presses his body against mine. I try not to wince from the sudden pain in my side. “You really should be.”

Out of breath, I try to speak, try to let him know how much he doesn’t faze me, even though the butterflies say otherwise. “Why?”

“Because,” his neck cranes down to get a better view, “Girls like you normally steer clear of guys like me.” Well, he’s not wrong.

Foster’s hands travel the length of my dress, which doesn’t take long. “I want to rip this fucking dress off.” He mutters between ragged breaths. “Too short,”

I want to tell him to do it.

His black eyes bore into me, and I can’t help but look away. “I thought you would like this look.”

He smirks, saying, “You look hot, but it’s not you.”

I gesture to my body, but his hand holds my face. “You normally make fun of my sweaters and skirts.” I reply simply.

He comes closer, his lips a feather away. “That’s not you either.”How does he know?

A warm breeze rustles in the air, making the dry parts of my hair blanket my face. As if Foster can’t stand the sight of me not looking at him anymore, his large hand gently slides across my cheek, his fingers moving the hair from his view.

“I should step away,” he tells me, his chest rising and falling fast, but there’s no conviction in his tone. I continue to look up, and he continues to glare down, not moving an inch. “Fuck it.” he growls.

In an instant, his lips collide with mine.

Nine

The moment our lips touch, I feel that spark; the kind that lets me know that it’s the real deal and I should run like hell. But the more his hands trap my face and the more my fingers feel through his soft hair, I can’t find the strength to care.

Foster’s silky mouth doesn’t match the feel of his palms; his firm grip is calloused and rough. His tongue parts my lips, and I gasp when he pins both of my wrists above my head with one hand. His other one travels down my curves.

When his attention travels to my neck, I worry about my inexperience. I’ve kissed guys before, but never like this. So, why does it feel so natural? Why when his neck cranes to pepper kisses on my skin does he fit so perfectly?

Through open lips, he mutters so quietly that I almost can’t hear him, “I knew it would be fucking perfect.”

The rain calms when his mouth leaves mine, as if us touching caused a cosmic effect that transcends weather. Why am I like this right now?

The ache from his absence bothers me more than it should. In perfect silence, his eyes, which match the sky, look to me in the most ‘I want you now’ kind of way.

I realize in that moment, in the dark near his motorcycle, in the pouring Florida rain, that Foster Jennings kissed me and took my breath away.

I steady myself, having to ask him a question that’s lingering between us. “You do realize I never answered your question about Brett being my boyfriend, right?”

Foster shrugs, trailing his fingertips up my arm. “Wouldn’t have stopped me.” I don’t miss his smirk at the new information. He looks towards the damp road. “Maybe you should call Kate?”

I lean firmer against the damp tree, my clothes already drenched. “Why?”

He gestures to the road, saying, “Too slick,”

“What about you?” I ask, shaking my head.

“I’m not worried about me.” We continue to stand under the tree. Our tree.

I look away, not wanting to say it out loud. “I am,”

“You don’t have to lie.” Foster laughs. I shake my head, and water drips down my face.

“I’m not lying.”

---